


gloaming

by indefinissable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 11:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indefinissable/pseuds/indefinissable
Summary: Sam’s eyes hurt from looking at the flames and his chest is tight from smoke. It’s so cold his hands are shaking and his legs feel numb, slow to cooperate. All the focus and energy that came with the desperate search for Jack have faded away with the fire and the hollow ache gnawing through him grows stronger as its ashes settle, cold and grey and still.He turns his back on the pyre and goes inside.





	gloaming

When the last flames are low enough that the edge of the water is no longer visible in the darkness and it’s so cold Sam can see his breath in what flickering light remains, he says, “Dean.” 

His voice breaks the bottomless silence like a glass shattering, and Dean flinches at the sound, a dark outline against the firelight. When he speaks it’s clipped and hoarse. “Not yet.”

Sam’s eyes hurt from looking at the flames and his chest is tight from smoke. It’s so cold his hands are shaking and his legs feel numb, slow to cooperate. All the focus and energy that came with the desperate search for Jack have faded away with the fire and the hollow ache gnawing through him grows stronger as its ashes settle, cold and grey and still.

He turns his back on the pyre and goes inside.

It’s no warmer in the house. His footsteps echo loudly against the floorboards and the door shuts behind him with a bang that makes him jump. Sam treads carefully, avoiding broken glass on the ground from Jack’s episode earlier. He skirts around the dining room, keeping his eyes steadfastly away from the sturdy wooden table and torn curtains fluttering in the window.

He reaches the foyer. Shuts his eyes tight for a moment and tries not to remember the first time he stood here, with mom beside him and Dean leaning on his shoulder and Cas descending the stairs to greet them. His fingernails are drawing blood in half-crescent shapes on his palms and the brittle hollowness in his chest gets so bad he wraps his arms unconsciously around himself to keep his ribcage from shattering apart.

Sam breathes. In, then out.  _ You’re fine _ . He just has to get warm.

“Sam.”

Sam startles, jerking back so hard his shoulder strikes the opposite wall. “ _ Shit _ .” It sounds thin and breathless in his ears.

Jack is standing in the entrance to the foyer, watching Sam. “What are you doing?”

Sam realizes how he must look, backed up against the wall and breathing like he’s on the verge of a heart attack. With effort, he uncurls his hands from around his ribs, takes another breath to try and ease the pressure there. “Didn’t hear the door open,” he manages to get out.

Jack blinks at him. He tilts his head quizically, like Sam is a particularly complicated puzzle. Then, after a pause, he says, “When I wasn’t born yet, I burned the bad woman. I did it so she couldn’t hurt me anymore. Is that why you burned my mother and father?”

“Uh.” Sam’s nails find his palm again, dig in until he can grasp a thread of concentration. “It’s partly a way of saying goodbye. And it makes it so nothing bad can happen to them when they’re... after they’re gone. It keeps them safe.”

Jack’s eyes glitter curious gold in the low light of the foyer. “What keeps us safe?”

“We keep each other safe _ , _ ” Sam says.

The words ring hollow between them in the quiet foyer. They all had friends by their side when they died. Cas and Mom and Kelly. Their eyes were open.

Jack mulls it over. “I’m hungry,” he says. “Is there anything to eat?”

The thought of food turns Sam’s stomach. He can’t remember the last time he ate anything. “Check the fridge,” he says.

Jack nods agreeably, then turns away and heads back toward the kitchen.

Sam’s hands are still shaking. The air is cold, and unnaturally calm. It’s quiet enough that Sam can hear his own heartbeat, loud in his ears. If Jack is still in the house, his movements are utterly silent.

He takes several steadying breaths, then pushes off from the wall and makes for the front door. Outside, the midnight sky is clear and open and lit up with a thousand thousand eyes, cold and blank and a billion years dead by now. Sam shivers, tugs his jacket collar up. 

He crosses the driveway, opens back passenger door of the car and climbs in. The backseat is cramped and there’s never quite enough room for Sam’s legs, but he folds them up to fit, clutches his knees to his chest until his knuckles turn white. Closes his eyes and doesn’t let go until the shaking stops and he can breathe normally again.

Time loses meaning for a while after that, but the moon has shifted places by the time Sam leaves the car and goes back to the house. When he gets inside, he hears the back door close and the sound of Dean’s boots on the hardwood.

Dean doesn’t look any better in the light than he had outside. In that same hoarse, empty tone he says, “Get the kid. It’s time to go.”

Sam hesitates. “Don’t you want to get some sleep first?”

Dean is staring absently at a point to Sam’s left. “No.”

Sam clears his throat. He calls Jack’s name, but there’s no response. He goes through the doorway into the kitchen, where he finds evidence of a meal eaten recently--an open box of cookies and a table covered in crumbs. 

“Jack?” he says again.

“I thought you were gonna keep an eye on him,” Dean says flatly.

Sam doesn’t have the energy to ask when that became his responsibility. Then, unbidden, he sees an image of himself, curled up tight in the backseat, holding himself together with his hands.

“I know where he is.”

The floorboards creak softly under his boots as he ascends the stairs and makes his way through the hallway, past the closed door to Kelly’s room. The nursery door is open. Faint starlight spills out into the hall.

Jack is on his knees with his back turned to the door. In front of him the mural Kelly painted for him spreads across the wall--the apple tree, the sun setting on a rolling hill, his name in bold colourful letters. His head is tipped forward, resting against the wall, palms turned outward and pressed flat to the fresh paint. His shoulders are bowed inward. He looks achingly small. 

“Jack,” Sam says softly. “It’s time to go.”

Jack stands slowly, turns to face him in the half-darkness. Still-wet green paint is smeared on his forehead, his palms. There’s no trace of gold in his eyes.

“Go where?” he asks, quietly.

“Home,” Sam says. “We’re going home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos eternally appreciated! If you'd like to find me elsewhere, I'm @withthedemonblood on tumblr and @woodlandsammy on twitter.


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